by Linda Coles
Two minutes later, Chrissy was unrecognisable after the expert makeover. She looked at herself in the huge gilt mirror, turning from side to side, checking out Julie’s handiwork and marvelling at how it transformed her own face. Now she looked a lot like one of the stylish women she had seen on the taxi ride in: stylish, glamorous and ready for her day ahead. Playing a part was all about getting your head in the right space and she rubbed her pink lips together then ran her hand down her front to remove imaginary creases and loose hair. Chrissy Livingstone was ready to go.
“Wish me luck,” she said.
“I’ll be right behind you.”
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chrissy approached the front desk, asked to speak to the contact she’d been given and waited. A moment later an older man, smartly dressed in a black suit and shiny silver tie, smiled graciously as he made his way across to Chrissy Livingstone.
“Bonjour madame,” he said in a voice as smooth as old-fashioned velvet. It held a certain richness and he suited his surroundings perfectly.
“Bonjour, je suis ici pour prendre un colis au nom de Tabitha Child.”
Chrissy quickly introduced herself and told the man what it was that she was picking up. She was a friend of Tabitha Child, who sadly hadn’t made it after being involved in a train crash, and Chrissy was here to pick up the package that was waiting for her.
“One moment please,” the man said with a gracious smile and a slight bow as he returned back to the office that he’d come from only moments ago. A few seconds later he returned with the package, which was nothing more than an A4-size Jiffy envelope. It was hardly going to be the Crown jewels inside, but Chrissy and Julie both glanced at the small package with interest. Julie kept her distance, not saying a word. With Chrissy’s performance, it seemed that Julie wouldn’t be needed after all.
“Merci beaucoup,” said Chrissy. She too could be gracious and, without wanting to appear in a rush or to engage in further conversation after she’d got what she’d come for, smiled pleasantly. The two ladies slowly made their way back to the main entrance. Neither of them said a word. Once out on the pavement, Chrissy sucked city air into her lungs like a smoker before exhaling, closing her eyes almost in pleasure. It couldn’t have gone any smoother.
“Let’s find somewhere to sit down and have a coffee,” said Chrissy matter-of-factly. The two women turned left and entered the first café they came to. It was perfectly Parisian, a place for the locals. Adrenaline was circulating fast in Chrissy’s veins and the spike of caffeine to come would send her into another orbit, but she was excited that the package would contain something of use. A waitress took their order.
“Are you going to open it or sit and stare at it?” Julie asked. “Because if you don’t, we’ll never know what’s inside it.”
“I know Alan Davies said we could open it, but I’m thinking if there’s something in here that can be used in a court case, say, we shouldn’t contaminate it.”
“Whatever are you talking about? We’re looking for Susan, a missing friend, not drug smuggling. There won’t be a court case.”
“I know but it all seems a little more sinister now. And look at the name on the front: Tabitha Child. Who is this woman and how on earth does she know Susan?” she said, reaching into her bag for the spare pair of latex gloves she always carried. She slipped them on.
“Just open the package and you’ll soon see whatever it is,” Julie said, sounding impatient. Chrissy flipped it over and carefully peeled away the seal. She could feel bubble wrap from the outside squishiness in her hand, suggesting there was something fragile that needed protecting. Something that needed more than just a regular paper envelope. With the seal fully open, Chrissy pressed both creased-edge sides together slightly so that she could create a larger hole to view what was inside.
“Come on,” said Julie, drumming her fingers.
Chrissy tipped the contents carefully on to the table in front of them. Both women gasped out loud at the same time at the realisation of what they were looking at. Chrissy picked up each item for closer examination.
“I wasn’t expecting that,” said Chrissy. “I don’t know quite what I was expecting, but I certainly wasn’t expecting that.”
“Neither was I,” said Julie. “Who the hell is Tabitha Child and what does she want with this lot? What are we going to do?”
“I think this takes things up another level, don’t you? And I think Detective Davies needs to get himself a bit more involved, because this is a lot more than a woman going missing.”
“I agree. We’re out of our depth.”
“Well, if he’s got any sense, he’ll get straight on a plane and meet us because finding Susan just got a whole lot more important. But I won’t tell him over the telephone what we found. There could be someone listening. I’ll email him, like he suggested.”
Julie was about to roll her eyes at the suggestion but considered what her sister had said and thought it plausible. Under the circumstances. The two women stared at the contents laid out on the table. Chrissy prepared to take photos. The package contained a complete set of personal documents: passport, credit cards, birth certificate. And all in the name of Susan Smith – but with Tabitha Child’s photo.
She’d been planning on taking another woman’s identity.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Detective Alan Davies was buried in paperwork, trying to play catch-up with other cases on his workload. It seemed endless, but each new case created piles of it and every day brought fresh victims of crime. A sad fact. His phone ringing was a welcome distraction. It was Chrissy Livingstone and he swiped to accept the call. He couldn’t resist smiling, even though she couldn’t see him. He was warming to the woman.
“DS Alan Davies,” he announced in a sing-song voice.
“Detective, it’s Chrissy.”
“And good afternoon to you,” he said jovially. “Early afternoon at least,” he added, glancing at his computer screen. “Are you in Paris still?”
“We are, yes. And we have the package.” She wasn’t giving anything away, not over the phone.
“And, what is it?”
“I can’t tell you over the phone, I’m afraid. Or should I say, I’m not willing to say over the phone. ”
Alan readjusted himself in his chair. The fake leather squeaked unhelpfully beneath him. He hoped Julie hadn’t heard it and thought him rude.
“And why is that?”
“Because of what Tabitha Child had, or was having, should I say, delivered. And on that, who is this woman? I gather you already know of her?”
There was no way Alan was going to say who Tabitha was at this point, if ever. But he was now intrigued as to what the woman had sent or had organised to be sent. Lots of people addressed and posted items to themselves, considering it a safer option than carrying it, if that’s what she’d done. Alternatively, without seeing what was inside the package or the package itself, anyone could have dropped it off for delivery. Even Susan Smith herself. But he couldn’t help the intrigue building in his gut.
“I don’t know much about her, save for she’s part of another case for another colleague.” It wasn’t a lie. Should he mention she’d been on the train? He searched his head for the answer – would it be helpful or be more harmful than good? Maybe they already knew?
“Since she was meeting Susan,” Chrissy said. “I’m thinking Tabitha might have been on the same train. I’m pretty certain they were travelling together.”
Damn it. Alan wondered how she could have figured that out, got confirmation of what he already knew. Private investigators didn’t play by the same set of rules as police did, but then they also didn’t have access to the same tools. If Chrissy had a contact at the police that was divulging information, they could lose their job searching databases for unrelated cases. An officer couldn’t do a background check on a Tinder date any more – it was considered a violation of the person’s privacy and a waste of police resources – so ho
w could they find out?
Chrissy let out an exaggerated sigh. He wasn’t going to confirm or deny. She moved on: “I’ll email the photos now. Stand by.”
Alan waited, listening for the faint whoosh sound at her end, notification the email was sent. He refreshed his inbox and the email landed almost immediately. He quickly scanned each image. It was his turn for a heavy sigh.
“Text me where to meet you,” he said. “I’m on my way.” Then hung up.
He tossed his phone to his desktop and it clattered loudly before hurling itself on to the floor. “Damn and damn again!” he yelled, reaching to retrieve it.
“What’s got your undies in a twist?” Bridget called his way. Her glasses perched on the end of her nose and green eyes peered over the upper rim at him. She’d make an excellent school headmistress in a TV sketch.
“I’ve got to get to Paris. This case is getting heavy.”
“Well, I’m going to add to it,” she said, rising and strolling over to his desk. “Because Tabitha Child’s credit card has just pinged in a town called Albi. Your nearest airport is Toulouse so I suspect you’ll want to meet Chrissy there instead?”
Alan stood excitedly and wrapped his hands around Bridget’s head, pulling it forward to plant a kiss on her forehead.
“I think I love you!” he exclaimed as she wiped the damp spot with her sleeve.
“Do that again, and I’ll swat you like a fly.”
At least she was smiling.
“Toulouse. I’ll meet the two of them there. They can get there easy enough, I’m sure,” he said, making a grab for his jacket. “Let’s hope Morton doesn’t find me before the plane takes off.”
Chapter Sixty-Seven
It didn’t take long for the CCTV link to come through and Dominic was able to have a quick look before the flight attendant told him, for the final time, to put his laptop away for take-off. Begrudgingly, he did so. But what he’d seen had given him hope that his idea could work. Even though it was a grainy image, the woman pretending to be Tabitha Child had faced the camera head-on and Dominic had been surprised at the uncanny resemblance. But then passport control hadn’t been hard for her to convince either.
By the time he landed back in England there was a text waiting for him from Morton. One that surprised him even more. It appeared that somebody had used Tabitha Child’s credit card and the ping had come through, Morton had let him know. The card had been used at a café in Albi, not far from Toulouse. Dominic hoped it wasn’t going to turn out to be like his trip to Paris, following her phone when a spotty youth had picked up. Had someone stolen her credit card, or was it actually the lookalike woman using it? There was only one way to find out for sure and that was to follow the trail. He’d be nuts not to. He needed to get back there. And fast.
Pulling his overnight case behind him, Dominic headed straight for ticketing to book a flight to a destination not far from where he’d just come from. It could be the breakthrough he needed. Now all he had to do was hope that she returned to the same café or that she got slack again; after all, it was the first time she’d used the card since disappearing.
“Sit tight, I’m coming to find you,” he muttered as he headed for the departure gate again.
He had plenty of time before his flight back, which didn’t go until 6.40 pm, so he wandered aimlessly around the airport, hoping that the act of walking would stir something useful in his mind. If you had an issue with something, had a problem to sort, the best thing to do was to do something mundane that allowed your brain to work on the issue or problem in the background as you performed something entirely different. Taking your focus off it worked wonders. It had worked in the past and he hoped it would work now. He had an hour or two to kill. But nothing was going happen when he got to Toulouse and then on to Albi later in the evening, it would be too late, around midnight local time. All he could hope for was an early start in the morning and the woman making another mistake. Yes, he could go to the café and interview the person that had taken her payment, show them a photograph, and confirm it had been the lookalike and not another spotty youth thief. It would be a start. But after that? It was back to the waiting game with his eyes wide open.
Albi is a beautiful place, a tourist attraction, with a majestic cathedral at its centre. Cathedral Basilica of Saint Cecilia, also known as Albi Cathedral, is home to nearly 200,000 square feet of Renaissance frescoes, but Dominic would have no time for sightseeing – he’d have to return another day and in a different frame of mind to explore. But the many steps that lay at the foot of the cathedral gave him the opportunity to sit and watch without looking out of place for long periods of time. He wasn’t the only person doing so now, though he’d been the only one at seven o’clock that morning. The café, where the card had been used, opened early so Dominic had eaten his croissant and lingered over coffee before casually asking the waiter if he’d seen the woman in his photo. Had she been in for lunch the previous day?
“Non, désolé je ne sais pas,” the young man said and Dominic managed to decipher that he didn’t know. In his own broken French, he asked if the waiter that had served her yesterday was in today. The reply came back the same. He didn’t know. At that point, an older man, that Dominic assumed to be the owner, entered the café from a back room, wisps of hair floating on an otherwise bald head, large red-and-white broad-striped apron stretched around his ample girth. Dominic stood and caught his attention before he disappeared again. He asked if the man had seen the woman, but the man shook his head.
“I’m out in the back most of the time,” he said in perfect English, though with a strong French accent. He reminded Dominic of René Artois on the TV show ’Allo, ’Allo! He would have smiled and enjoyed the man’s manner more if he wasn’t on such an important mission.
“The waiter from lunch yesterday,” – there was no point struggling with his French efforts – “will he be in today?”
“Louis? Yes, he will be. He starts at ten. Come back then.” And then he disappeared, back to the kitchen presumably, leaving Dominic with nothing left to do but return later. And that’s how he’d found himself sat on the cathedral steps, again, watching and waiting. It was useful the cathedral held such a central spot in the town, with shops and cafés all around its base, some in full sun and some covered in shade from nearby buildings. By lunchtime the temperature would be in the mid-thirties and a shaded table would be in huge demand.
When 10 am finally came around, Dominic ventured back to the café where he’d eaten breakfast and spoke to Louis who graciously shook his head – no, he hadn’t seen her.
Agitated by this negative response, Dominic tried a different approach. Who had he then served at 1.13 pm, the time of the transaction?
“I will need to see the receipts, to remind me. Lunch is a busy time, you see.”
“Please, can you take a look? It’s important.”
“I’ll have to ask. Please wait here,” and he vanished out the back, probably to check in with the owner. A minute or two later the young man appeared again, credit card slips in his hand. Dominic waited while he cross-checked with the written orders for the same amount, allowing him to see what she’d ordered.
“I remember her!” Louis said, excitedly, as if he had figured out the murderer in a game of Cluedo. Dominic’s pulse quickened, the smile on the man’s face giving him hope of a breakthrough in his case.
But that hope was about to be dashed. “But she’s not the lady in your picture.”
Dominic’s heart sank again. It wasn’t the news he’d hoped for. It seemed someone had in fact taken her credit card, just like someone had taken her phone.
“Are you positive?” Dominic was desperate.
“Yes. The lady at lunch had long red hair.”
Dominic raised his fist as if to smash it through the counter but refrained at the last moment.
Could it be as simple as the woman wearing a wig? He doubted it.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
; Kirsty Peters was used to taking what wasn’t rightfully hers. She’d had to for most of her life. With parents who had shown early on they didn’t give a damn, Kirsty had been brought up by her older brother in a large family of seven kids. Money had always been scarce during her childhood. Her parents spent most of it spent on booze and cigarettes for the two of them. Putting food on the table had been an afterthought. As long as their own stomachs were full, usually from the chip shop, there was never a thought spared for the rest of the family. Her brother Billy, only a couple of years older than her, had taken on the responsibility of feeding them, taking money from both their parents’ wallets while they slept off their hangovers. They’d assumed they’d spent it before passing out, no doubt. Billy had used the money to fill a secret store cupboard in the disused outhouse at the bottom of the garden. Even though the old toilet wasn’t the most salubrious place for a makeshift kitchen, it was all they had available. A hastily made jam sandwich from the cold, damp brick structure was better than going hungry, and at least on weekdays they could get a hot meal from school at lunchtime. The children weren’t too proud to accept the state’s charity; it was the only proper meal they got. And so Billy had continued to look after the smaller kids as he grew up, nicking money where he could and hiding it for rations. He had learned early on, and out of necessity, how to budget and keep seven mouths from having rumbling tums when they went to bed. But when Billy left home at the age of fifteen after yet another violent argument with their father, he’d told Kirsty she had to fill his shoes and carry their secret on, for the sake of the younger ones. And he’d left them to it. The last she’d heard of Billy was he was sleeping rough around London – somewhere. It was a big place.
And so Kirsty had carried on until her siblings had grown wild enough to look after themselves or be taken into care after offending, then reoffending. Both parents had washed their hands of them all and moved further up north. Where to, she’d no clue and didn’t much care. But her survival instincts had stayed with her through her formative years, having to make do and make the best of what was available.
